Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.

Molly Hooper is seventeen years old and Sherlock Holmes is all she can think of.

She is submersed in fantasies, all about him.

Sherlock asking her to the spring formal. (Because, despite what she's told her mother, she really wants to go. It's just that the right boy hasn't asked her. And by "the right boy" she means Sherlock. Craig Owens is nice, but she couldn't go out with him, knowing how she feels about Sherlock. And what if Sherlock did ask her?)

Sherlock admitting his feelings for her. (Which would be perfect, really; just the thought makes her giddy. They would be perfect for each other. She loves his idiosyncrasies; they were what drew her to him in the first place.

Well, besides his looks.

And he actually seems pleased by her desire to become a pathologist (not to mention the fact that he knows what a pathologist is).

Perfect.)

Sherlock marrying her. (And maybe she's being irrational, but Molly Anne Holmes sounds brilliant to her. She's taken to scrawling the moniker into her notepads, knowing that someone might see but feeling too enamored to erase them.)

He's beautiful, and brilliant, and she's convinced no one will ever compare to him.

Molly sighs dreamily.

Sherlock doesn't ask her to the spring formal.

She thought he would, she really thought he would, despite how Mary warned her not to get her hopes up.

"Molly," Mary begins, radiating concern,"this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about; he doesn't like dancing, or people, or anything really."

Molly shakes her head, "Sherlock must know I want him to ask me; I've been talking about it for days." She smiles fondly, "He's so sharp. "

"The sharpest." Mary agrees warily, "But I don't think he'll want to exit his comfort zone like that." She sighs, "Just be careful."

Molly brushes off her concern.

She should have listened to Mary because, honestly, she's not even sure that Sherlock knew there would be a dance. He probably got too caught up in one of his experiments.

(The thought that he did know, that he knew she wanted him to ask her, that he didn't want to ask her-

Would be too much to bear.)

Which means he's probably still in the Chem lab. (She's not entirely sure how he got permission to use the lab whenever he sees fit. She knows it has something to do with Mycroft, his older brother, but Sherlock didn't seem to want to divulge any more information when she prodded him, so she left it alone.)

And, knowing him, he hasn't eaten in hours, if not an entire day. So Molly rips off her dress, scrubs the make-up off her face, and changes into her lab-safe clothes.

(No, she's not upset. Why would she be?

Those aren't tears, she was just a bit rough in removing her make-up.)

She's right about him being in the lab.

He doesn't look up when she walks in, which stings a little, but she's used to it. (She's known him for three years; it's just how he is.)

"Hello, Sherlock!" She chirps, trying her best not to sound disappointed, "I fetched some takeaway for you!"

No response.

She knows what that means: Sherlock is in no mood for conversating. Attempting to draw him from his work would be futile. Molly admires his focus, but she's hurt, and she brought him dinner, and he won't even look at her. She wants to tell him off for being such a terrible friend, but she's afraid he'll deny the existence of their friendship.

And if they're not friends, what are they?

She hovers by the door, wondering if she should leave. He answers her question.

"Go, Molly." Sherlock turns a dial on the microscope, his voice flat.

It's not the first time he makes her cry, nor will it be the last.

Irene Adler is a whore and Molly wants nothing to do with her. (She wishes Sherlock felt the same.)

It's agonizing, watching them together. (She's not even sure if they are together, her attempt to ask Sherlock went so badly.)

"Sherlock?" She's so glad she didn't stammer. He looks up, fixing her with his analytical gaze, and she continues, "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did, didn't you?" He sounds bored already (it seems like he's always bored by her), and she panics. He notices, of course, and tacks on an addendum, "Go ahead, Molly."

Molly smiles weakly, "Right, so I was wondering if..." She falters, her gaze flitting around the room, "If you and Irene are...together."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Really Molly, I never thought you would be one for gossip." He reverts his attention to the petri dish before him, "I have more pertinent matters to attend to, if you don't mind."

(Talking to her isn't pertinent?)

Molly reels a bit at the dismissal. She fights off the hurt, knowing Sherlock is just being himself, and forces out a farewell before fleeing the lab.

Sherlock cares about Irene. His eyes are always on her, taking in her every move, and he never ignores her like he does Molly. He doesn't shy away from her touch, nor does he ever tell her she would be better off not speaking at all.

Irene is beautiful, and captivating, and intelligent. Why wouldn't Sherlock want her?

(Why would he ever want Molly?)

The worst part about their relationship is that Molly was wrong. Sherlock isn't cold towards her because he doesn't know how to express himself properly, he's cold because he doesn't like her.

Molly decides it's time to stop being Sherlock's lab assistant.

It's not like they're friends.

(Or anything more.)

Sherlock was always using her. He would ask her to bring him food, or coffee, or some chemicals, and she would always oblige, never expecting so much as a thanks because she knew how difficult expressing gratitude was for him. She never complained when he ordered her around or was cruel to her, because she accepted him as he was. The knowledge that he could be better, that he could be less awful, but that he wouldn't do that for her was too much. What Molly had seen as a friendship is anything but to him.

Like he doesn't care about her at all.

She could deal with his abruptness, with his occasional insensitivity, with his rudeness-but him not even caring?

It hurts too much.

She leaves a note beside his favorite microscope because she doesn't know that she'll be able to remain resolute if he's standing right in front of her.

Sherlock,

I won't be stopping by the lab anymore. My Gran has been wanting to spend more time with me, so I'm going to spend weekends visiting her from now on.

See you later.

-Molly

Mary corners her a week after she distances herself from Sherlock.

She looks pissed. And tired.

Molly gives her an alarmed look, her eyes scanning Mary's face with evident concern, "Are you alright, Ma-"

Mary thrusts a hand forward, interjecting angrily.

"You know who showed up at my house last night? Sherlock fucking Holmes!" Molly gapes at her, and the librarian stops typing (she loves to eavesdrop), "He climbed in through the bloody window, Molly. It was eleven o'clock. I thought I was gonna' be raped." Mary clenches her jaw and looks upwards, "The prat waltzed in like it was perfectly normal and demanded to know about your Gran." She plops onto the seat Molly had previously occupied, "Please tell me why I had to lie about you visiting her more often."

Molly tries to ignore the slightly manic gleam in Mary's eyes.

She explains herself, relaxing as Mary's expression softens into one of compassion. It sounds more pathetic when she vocalizes her woes, but she ploughs on despite the self-loathing she feels.

"I am so sorry, Mary." Molly takes in her friend's frazzled appearance, "I didn't realize that losing his assistant would bother him so much." She sighs, "I honestly didn't think he'd notice."

(Because why would losing her bother him?)

Mary cradles her head in her hands, golden strands veiling her face, "I almost hit him with a cricket bat, Molls."

The librarian resumes her typing.

Irene moves two months later.

And for the first time, Sherlock seeks Molly out.

Mary hands Molly a note, much to the latter's confusion, "Sherlock broke into my house to give me this; it's for you." She rolls her eyes, "I gave him your number, but he insisted on the note."

Molly opens the neatly folded note.

Irene's gone.

I know you lied about your grandmother.

Please come back.

-S

Molly stares at the words until the letters blur together.

Mary exhales sharply, "I might sound nutters for saying this, but I think he cares about you." She sighs, "But this is Sherlock Holmes; you can't get your hopes up with him."

Molly nods, clutching tightly to the note.

All she can think about is the fact that he actually wants her to come back.

(Later, when she's in a more lucid state, she apologizes to Mary for Sherlock's attacks on her mental health, and forces Sherlock to do the same.)

A/N: I don't know why I ended it this way. My original intent was to have more than just mild Sherlolly, but this is how it turned out. I kinda' like it, though; this was just about Sherlock realizing he wants Molly around. Besides, they're only in high school; a confession of love would be kinda' laughable. I'll try to write another soon.

Thoughts on my Mary? I can't wait till we meet canon Mary...

Until next time!